


With Waking Nightmares

by lesbiankarlmarx



Category: Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
Genre: 1930s, Allen Ginsberg - Freeform, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Prostitution, george is not experienced, lil bit of f/m smut, slim is experienced, slim shows george the ropes ;)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:41:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23432593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbiankarlmarx/pseuds/lesbiankarlmarx
Summary: George is haunted by Lennie's murder. Slim needs to wake him up from his nightmarish state, laboring with his eyes closed, sleeping awake. He takes him to the cathouse.
Relationships: George Milton/Slim
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. Jazz

One

After Lennie died, George fell into routines. These new routines, however, were quite different than before. George’s days grew relentlessly busy by his own free will lest his brain linger and land on a forbidden memory. These thoughts could only be visited in the solitude of his room or at times between the peeling bark of trees along the maze of a path in the forest a mile away. Without calloused hands and an aching back to shield him, George’s mind was wide open to thoughts of Lennie. It was more the images than anything else. If an axe grazed his shin, the memory of the back of Lennie’s head stained maroon stung more than the cut itself, no matter how deep. The only voice he could hear at night belonged to Lennie, drowning out his own inner speech and every external sound. On the worst nights, George was blind to every color except for red and every emotion except for shame.  
The only person on the ranch who knew what George had done was Slim. Upon encountering George on the shore with a gun still pointed at Lennie’s fallen body, he offered his help with the burial. George protested against it, arguing that they should sink his body in the river, but Slim still dug. George dug, too, and picked up his feet to drag him to the hole. His hands lost their grip and the corpse fell with a thud onto the sand. Before he gathered the strength to try again, Slim slipped past him and lifted his ankles with ease. A few minutes later, George Milton saw Lennie’s face for the last time. He sat on a mound of sand by Lennie’s side and dropped his eyes to the river, still flowing steadily in spite of it all.  
“You wanted to take care of the rabbits, an’ the pups too. You even wanted to hold onto that mouse you found on the side of the road, sit there an’ stroke it with your finger. I don’t know why you needed to feel these soft things all the time, but you did, and I couldn’t just leave you there in Weed with the cops an’ the sheriff.” He let his eyes return to the grave in front of him, marked with a few scratches of Slim’s finger - Here lies Lennie. “You know I couldn’t just leave you, right? Not with Curley coming to shoot ya, either. You might’ve killed him by accident. I couldn’t let that happen, Lennie, you understand. But your aunt, she told me to take care of you. ‘My nephew,’ she said, ‘he needs you.’ Didya need me, Lennie? Well, I failed ya.”  
George forced out an ironic chuckle and tore his eyes away from the sand piled over Lennie’s body. “I’m sorry you couldn’t have the rabbits. I would’ve given ‘em to you - I really would’ve - I would’ve done what I promised. But I - but you -” Instead of a sentence, a low moan came out of his mouth. George dragged his hands down his face, pressing the pads of his fingers harshly into his cheekbones. These were the hands that murdered. These were the hands that took Lennie away.  
Slim came back then, emerging softly from the woods with a sack in hand and furrowed brows.  
“Hey, George?” He drew his hands back, away from his face, and clenched them in fists by his sides.  
“Let’s go get a drink.”  
That night, George and Slim didn’t go to the cathouse. They didn’t even go far into town or get a drink at all. George climbed into the passenger seat of Slim’s broken-down automobile and Slim drove far past dusk. George did not ask where they were, where they were going, or whether they would get a drink because these questions did not occur to George. It was then that he began to silence his mind, fearful of the things he might remember should he entertain the thoughts. As the orange streaks of sunset began to fade out, the car slowed and Slim cleared his throat.  
“You must know it wasn’t your fault, George.”  
George was silent.  
“You had to do it.”  
“I didn’t have to shoot Lennie. I could have helped him.” George’s voice broke, but he tried to go on. “Do you know how I knew where to find him? I told him to go there if anything went wrong. He was betrayed by his only friend.”  
George was trembling now, even as he grabbed the seat to steady himself. Slim reached out a hand and pressed it to George’s knee.  
“You saved him from something worse.” Keeping his hand on the other man’s knee, Slim drove on. The moon surfaced in the overcast sky, shedding her silver gaze on the windshield of the automobile. George’s eyes stayed fixed on a roof in the distance and gritted his teeth against unwelcome thoughts. He had slumped back against the headrest, limbs limp and eyes shut, by the time Slim pulled into the dirt road leading to the ranch. He hauled the shorter man over his shoulder and set him down onto his bed with a pat on the chest.  
For the following month, Slim never mentioned what George did and said that night. If anyone else thought of the previous events, they learned not to speak of them. Slim silenced anyone who dared to remember. George found the tranquility odd - Candy had never tiptoed over anything before, and though George could sense Slim’s intention to talk, he stayed within his own duties. The days slipped by like fall leaves descending from an oak tree, all too quiet and light, over and gone to reveal a layer of emptiness beneath. With each passing hour, George struggled to contain the thoughts of pain and impulses to cause more of it upon himself or Curley. He couldn’t decide who deserved it more. His crime was out of necessity and not rage, but perhaps that was worse - he had broken a bond of trust.  
George had dreams nearly every night. Few were distinctly about Lennie’s death, but they all plagued him nonetheless. It was deleterious. After weeks of this, he rarely ever felt awake. He woke up disoriented and confused every morning, regretfully realized he sat there, in a shallow bed, on a ranch. Sans hope, Lennie, anything that remained of before.  
One dream, in particular, was poisonous. Lennie haunted George’s bed, dripping sand, wanting revenge. His large body hovered over George, allowing no escape. George awoke, sweating, curled tightly in a ball like a child. When he opened his eyes, he saw Slim above the bed, not Lennie. It was a relief, but his proximity was startling. Instead of dirty overalls, Slim wore blue jeans and a crisp button-up shirt unbuttoned down his chest. His hair was wet from the shower and slicked back to the nape of his neck. He looked like a movie star.  
Slim lifted George from the bed by the wrist. “No work today. Curley’s got paperwork.”  
George was always conscious of his height, especially around the other ranch workers. Tall and strong. Upwards of six feet.  
Slim never made him feel insecure in his height. The five inches between them were pronounced, but Slim looked him square in the jaw. Looking up at Slim, George felt something shift in him. Something that reached down his chest and stomach and chilled him below his belly button.  
Slim looked him up and down, smiled faintly, and turned away with a “follow me” gesture. They walked to the dirt-road parking lot, and Slim slapped the hood of his truck.  
“Where are we going?”  
Slim looked over his shoulder at George, who stood square with his hands on his hips, squinting at the sun. Slim stepped closer and spoke in a low voice.  
“The cathouse.”  
Surprised, George climbed into the seat beside Slim’s.


	2. Brick House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> allowing myself the creative license to give 1930s sex workers class consciousness

It was two-thirty when Slim woke George and took him to his truck, and three-fifteen when they got to town. George was smoking the tobacco Slim offered him from the glove compartment. Slim was driving with one hand on the wheel and the other between him and George. That hand was thick, and strong, and veiny, and it looked like it could take George by the neck and leave purple prints behind. It was like teasing. It got George angry. George already felt defensive - Slim had caught him vulnerable. He already knew he had night terrors, and sometimes whined about it in his sleep, and he could only hope to God Slim hadn’t walked in on one of those. George couldn’t stand Slim pitying him. It was just about the worst thing he could think of.   
It was three-twenty when they opened the door to the cathouse. It was a brick building, like a normal house, and it wouldn't have been conspicuous if not for its position behind a drugstore in an alley. The door creaked open, paisley drapes dangling, and there was a man smoking a cigar and leaning in the corner of the room. He stepped forward when he saw them.  
"Here for a gal?" His voice was deep. But he was short and potbellied and George wasn't too intimidated. He looked like his uncle. Slim nodded, all sleek-looking in his bulky coat and mussed hair.   
"I'll charge ya when you're done," he said, with a wave of his hand toward the doorway, "just tell me the gal's name."  
When they were done. What would they do? All George had done was a bit of rolling in the grass with a neighbor's daughter, but her panties were on, and George had stayed mostly soft. Slim had probably done more. George imagined it and blushed.  
They entered the next room and saw a couch, light green and stout, hand towels draped over the top. Three women were perched on the couch, each wearing pink blush and slips and stockings almost up to their knees.   
“Hiya,” said one, rising from the couch and smiling at them, “How are you boys tonight?”   
Slim smiled and muttered something about having the day off. He slipped his coat off and looked around for somewhere to hang it. One of the girls offered to take it, and George’s too, and as she made her way down the hallway they were glad to have their wallets in the pockets of their trousers. They didn’t have much; working at the ranch didn’t pay too well, other than having room and board, but no one went into town too often, so it added up.   
The girl on the left introduced herself as Helen. The girl on the right was Gilly. George had thought, for some reason, that they would have names like those pretty, flirty girls in the pictures. Daisy or Kitty or Canada. They did look like prostitutes though, all lace and exposed skin, except the first girl walked back in wearing a sweater and hugging herself to stay warm.   
After a few more minutes split between silence and small talk, it began to rain. The water ricocheted off the roof, obscuring the other sounds in the room. It was comforting, in a way, and it seemed to embolden Slim, as he rose from the armchair he had settled in and approached Helen with a smile. She led him down the hallway and they spoke in low voices as they slipped into a room and closed the door behind them. George figured he should do the same, so he held out a hand to Gilly, and she sprang up with a smile. The room she led him to was nearly bare, housing just a bed, an armchair, and a small, rectangular mirror hanging on the wall. George caught a glimpse of his reflection as he entered - he looked weary.   
George and Gilly chatted briefly, sitting on the bed - about the weather, their hometowns, and Soledad, where George had scarcely been, but to which Gilly was native. There was another picture in town - Camille, starring Greta Garbo. Gilly swore she'd seen Greta come by the cathouse and go into a room with Helen. George didn't know what to say to that, and then Gilly inched closer to him, settling her hand on his leg.  
"I-I don't want to disrespect you," he blurted out. "You know, you're selling yourself."  
For a second Gilly's face showed frustration, but she smiled, all patience. "You're not disrespecting me. It's no different from any other job, okay?"  
"But-"  
"You work on the ranch outside of town, right?"  
"Uh-huh." She probably saw other guys from the ranch. George wondered who else she had slept with - had Slim been here before? It didn't seem like it.   
"Well, we both get paid. We're not rich, but there's nothing better about either kind of work. Now quit it and kiss me."  
George complied. Her mouth was soft and skillful, smiling against his as she pulled him toward her with her hands on his back. She murmured something about a strong back into his ear and then kissed down his neck. As she unbuttoned his shirt, he closed his eyes and was alarmed to see a picture of Slim in his mind. He shook his head, prompting Gilly to look up at him with a question in her eyes, and he smiled, encouraging her to go on. As she palmed his chest, tracing a finger down the hair that gathered below his belly button, she said,  
"Sure is hard work out there. You must need to relax..."  
It felt so nice, to be whispered to in a kind and reassuring voice, to have his body touched and praised. She unbuttoned his jeans, taking him into her hand, and again he closed his eyes. Again, Slim appeared, sliding a hand into his underwear, bringing his mouth to...  
No. It was Gilly, not Slim, and she had hands much softer than Slim's. They were rough, big, veiny. George forced himself to open his eyes and focus. He faked a moan as she took him into her mouth, but his mind was swimming with contradictions. Not Slim. Not Slim.   
He couldn't do it. George pulled away, shoving her head off him without intending to. She stood up abruptly, confused, and he realized she had taken off her top and had her arms crossed over her breasts.  
"I'm sorry-" But he couldn't look at her, not without remembering how he had thought of Slim while she was touching him. He rushed out of the room and stood against the wall to clear his head. He could hear sounds from the adjacent room. A woman's moan, and a low voice he quickly recognized as Slim's. George walked toward the voices and found the door, which was cracked enough that he could see in. Feeling guilty, he peered in, seeing Helen up against a wall and Slim's hand up her dress. He was whispering to her, and she had her eyes closed and mouth open. George was about to turn away, feeling his stomach turn with disgust and arousal and disgust at his arousal, but then Slim turned his head. He made eye contact with George with his hand still working, staring deep and straight ahead. George stared back until fear rose in his body, giving him a slight ache in the head. He left the door and ran down the hallway and out the door, noticing the absence of the man in the front room but still fearing that he would emerge and pull a gun on him for not paying. George paced the block before sitting down on the curb next to Slim's truck. It felt rude to sit inside without him there, but he climbed inside and took some more tobacco out of the glove compartment and smoked it there on the curb. What's another vice?   
The sun was already rising when Slim left the brick building, casting a greenish light on the still mostly-dark town. Slim wore his coat and had George's in his hand. He got in the truck without a word, so George rose from the curb and did the same. After five minutes on the highway, Slim kept his eyes on the road and asked,  
"What happened with the girl?"  
George just shook his head.   
More silence, and then they missed the turn onto the ranch. George looked over at Slim, finding him already staring back, biting his lip a little. Their eye contact was electrically charged and ablaze with adrenaline. Turning back to the road, Slim reached his hand over to George's neck and put his fingers to the opening in the shirt that had stayed unbuttoned. Slim turned around, and they were back on the ranch but parked farther away than usual.   
"What was that back there?" George asked, as if he were not the voyeur.   
In response, Slim killed the engine and kissed George, hard, hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sex workers are valid, i don't mean to be rude in any way, and i'm sorry if this isn't accurate :( also i reminded myself how much i prefer writing about women lmfao

**Author's Note:**

> I am not very familiar with the 1930s!!! If you have historical inaccuracies to point out, please do so!!!


End file.
